


Grave Goods

by Taz



Series: Circle 'Round the Sun [3]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M, Oral Sex, Slash, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-30
Updated: 2011-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-28 11:47:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/307556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taz/pseuds/Taz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Duncan and Methos go back to The Front.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grave Goods

**Author's Note:**

  * For [adabsolutely](https://archiveofourown.org/users/adabsolutely/gifts).



_…he was calling the rain. Banging the spirit drum, steady and slow. Come. Come. The bones rattled in time, the beads danced. The wind was in his face. Come. Come. He could see the rain in the distance over the mountains. It was falling and blowing like horse tails below the clouds. Come. Come. We need you where the grass is withered and the streams are dry. Come to me. The clouds did not move. The rain did not come. A day and a night he stood there. Then his spirit rose and flew like a crow to the west…_

 

The night had been stressful. What little sleep MacLeod had gotten had been broken by waking frequently to listen for the soft breathy buzz of the man sleeping beside him.

When the phone rang, just after six, MacLeod fumbled it, dropped it, found it again, and said, “Yeah?”

It was Amanda on the other end, spitting mad. “That inspector friend of yours has frozen my accounts. My apartment is being sealed as we speak. If I end up in jail over this, it will be your fault.”

No use MacLeod pointing out that she had set him up first…after all, over the long haul what’s a little push and shoving between friends? It wasn’t as if she’d never gotten him killed. But, in this case, she was right. He still couldn’t help yawning into the mouthpiece. Mistake.

“MacLeod! What are you going to do about it?”

“Let me _think_.” Scrubbing a hand through his hair, he glanced at the porthole. It was still dark out and still raining. “Do you have your passport?”

“Of course I have my passport. I have three.”

“Portugal,” he said. “A nice, long vacation in Lisbon until I can get a lawyer on it and get things straightened out. Portugal is beautiful this time of year.”

“Money, MacLeod!”

“I’ll get you some money. Where do you want to meet?”

That led to a discussion of when; the banks didn’t open until nine and, for Amanda, in the immediate absence of weapons, a quick getaway should involve at least three suitcases.

Finally MacLeod put the phone down.

Methos had woken up at some point and was sitting up with his arms across on his knees, listening. “We’re going to have a later start than I intended. ‘Manda nee…ahg.” He was overwhelmed by another yawn. “She needs help.”

“The get out of town kind?” Methos rested his chin on his arm. “I don’t blame her. Between the police and Keane, a vacation right now sounds like a good idea.”

“Keane’s not going to come after me. Breakfast?”

“Coffee. You say he won’t come after _you_. I agree. But that is not the most rational man I’ve ever met.” Methos lifted his head and stroked his throat. “He and I did _not_ click!”

“Then it’s just as well you’re coming with me. Right?”

The alarm chose that moment to go off. Methos smacked it into silence and threw himself down in the pillows. “I cannot believe I let you talk me into this!”

“Think about the feather beds and the mulled wine, and try to control your enthusiasm.” MacLeod said, and went to look for the coffee press.

The banks didn’t open until nine. Initially, he thought they’d swing by Methos’s apartment after breakfast, let him run in and grab an overnight bag. Now he was thinking it might be wiser to just get on the road; given the way Methos was scowling at the bulkhead and not give him the opportunity to pull a vanishing act.

His intuition was correct. It had gone eleven by the time they met Amanda at the café in the _Parc des Expositions_ rail station. There, he handed over sufficient cash, along with more apologies and a bank draft large enough to keep her comfortably nearly anywhere for a year. A quick kiss for him and a hug for Methos and she was gone. Then, walking back to the car, Methos remembered that he’d left his toothbrush back at the barge. He asked MacLeod to take him home.

“It’s running late. We’ll stop on the way.”

“I just remembered I have an important appointment at the bookstore this afternoon.”

“Liar,” MacLeod said. “Last night—”

“Last night! Last night was…I’ve changed my mind. I’m not into sentimental journeys. I told you. All right?”

“No. Not all right.” They’d arrived at the car. MacLeod walked around the driver’s side and leaned over the roof. “I don’t need you and Amanda slipping out of my life on the same day.”

Methos leaned over his side of the car, and said, “It wouldn’t be happening if you hadn’t been such a pain in the ass.” Not disavowing any intention of disappearing.

“Thank you very much. Get in the car. Please.”

Scowling, Methos looked back at the train station. There was nothing for MacLeod to do but get behind the wheel, and wait. After a minute, the car shook from being struck and Methos got inside. He still had one foot on the ground, though. “What about the toothbrush.”

MacLeod started the car. “I’ll buy you one. Any color you like.”

“Red.” Methos pulled his foot in and slammed the door. “Cherry red.”

After that, neither of them said anything, as they drove toward the A1and north. MacLeod didn’t talk because traffic was heavy and he needed to concentrate; Methos, because he had no intentions of making it easy. In fact, he spent time randomly flipping radio stations until he was certain he wasn’t going to get a rise out of MacLeod.

The sky was like a sponge and the rain continued until they were south of Arras. They stopped for a quick lunch at the McDonald’s there, and a visit to _Monoprix._ In addition to a toothbrush, Methos tossed toothpaste, disposable razors and shaving cream into the basket, and then he added three boxes of ginger-lemon biscuits, because, as he said, they were impossible to find in Paris. Besides they were expensive and MacLeod was paying.

The traffic eased up past Armentiéres. White signs appeared bearing the names of towns: Calais, Ypres, Ostend, Brugge, Brussels... Off of the highway were green arrow-shaped signs. In French, English and German, they pointed the ways to _Dunkuerk, Waterloo_ and _Passendale..._ Neither man commented; they were familiar with the thrifty habit War has of recycling her ground. The distance between wars is closer in kilometers than years.

In Flanders, they encountered fog rolling in from the sea. Thick and white against the pale sky, it covered the muddy brown fields and erased the horizon. Above it, the steeples of town churches rose in the distance and pale pylons carrying high power lines that marched like giants across the land. The steeples and pylons vanished as they turned down a narrow country road and made their way cautiously past russet brick farmstead walls. Behind the farmhouses, even through the fog, the plowed fields began to look dimpled and rough, as if they could use a good ironing. Once, the headlights picked out a white marble cross, standing by itself by the road in a fenced enclosure. There was a wreath of poppies leaning against the base of it.

“You know maundering over the past isn’t healthy.”

“How else do you come to terms with it?”

“Forget it. Let it go. Who even says you have to?”

The road forked to embrace a plot of paved land on which sat a small country inn. Once an old farm house, the first story had been built of tawny stone and the second of red bricks, now weathered to a soft rose. On the far side of the plot, away from the inn building was an ugly double box of yellow brick with a sign that said CAFE-MUSEUM-MESSINES. “This is it,” MacLeod said, and killed the engine. “Welcome to Sod’s Corner Inn.”

“Sod’s Corner?”

“That’s what we called The Salient. It was like a thumb in the Kaiser’s eye, but they held the high ground and you’d be buggered to get out alive.”

“But, you said you’d been coming here for…?”

“Two hundred years, give or take. And so I have.” MacLeod opened his door. “Come on, you’ll love Mickey.”

“I will?” Methos got out and watched Macleod go bounding up the steps. “Who’s Mickey?”

An immortal; he felt the Presence immediately.

Macleod was at the desk slapping the table bell with the palm of his hand, shouting, “Innkeep! Service! You’ve custom!”

A sandy-haired man came loping down the hall and stopped. Then, spying MacLeod, he surged forward with his arms open, crying, “Strike me blind, Mac! I’d given you up.”

Watching the two embrace with mutually assured enthusiasm, Methos stood back.

Mickey was taller than MacLeod, a bit stoop-shouldered, wearing an olive drab sweatshirt and blue jeans—the jeans were American; the accent and expressions of pleasure were English. Hardship and strain had etched Mickey’s face deeply. He’d pass for a youthful fifty these days, but Methos would have bet that Blain had been in his late twenties when he died. The old-fashioned bifocals were a nice touch—Methos acknowledged that from behind the glare of the lens that he was being similarly sorted out over MacLeod’s shoulder.

Mickey released MacLeod from the bear hug, but kept an arm around his shoulders as he extended a hand to Methos.

“Mickey Blain,” he said. “Landlord. I’m an _old_ friend. Mac and me, we was pals in the Great War.”

“Adam Pierson,” Methos said, shaking hands. “It’s always good to meet an old friend of MacLeod’s.”

“Is Bobby around?” MacLeod said.

“No. He’s back in Blighty. On leave.”

MacLeod’s raised an eyebrow and Mickey responded with an upward tick of his shoulder. “He was getting a bit worn down. People were noticing.”

“Yeah, they’ll do that.”

Mickey scooped up MacLeod’s duffel. “Let’s get you fixed up; you’ll want dinner.”

“Yes. I’m starving,” Methos said. As they followed Mickey up the stairs, he shot a look of reproach at MacLeod. “What did I say about sentimental journeys?”

“Oh, hush,” MacLeod said. “Wait ‘til you see the room.

It was almost worth forgiving MacLeod. Directly under the gable and, as promised, there was a hearth, two beds that weren’t too narrow with eiderdowns and, best of all, a large modern bathroom into which MacLeod immediately vanished.

Methos tucked himself into the window seat that was set deep into the thick wall. There was enough room to curl up, watch the last of the daylight fade, and listen to the sound of running water. When MacLeod came out, rosy and sleek as seal, from his shower, it was also wide enough to accommodate them both.

“So you and Mickey ‘was pals in the Great War’?”

MacLeod smiled. “Yes.”

“And which Great War would that be?”

“Peninsular. He was our cook. Best forager in the regiment. After Waterloo, he left the army, married a French woman and moved here to keep this place. He’s managed to stay on, even if he has had to rebuild it a couple of times since.”

“And Bobby-back-in-Blighty—you do know Mickey’s lying about him, don’t you?”

“Yes. He was never good. You’d ask him were the chicken in the pot came from. He’d swear he paid for it honest, and then his shoulder’d gie that li’l twitch.”

“What’s the story? Don’t tell me there isn’t a story.”

“Shell shock.” MacLeod sighed. “He died hard and didn’t take it well.”

“How did they…?” Methos crossed the two middle fingers of his right hand.

“Companion? During the war. The last one, I mean. They were both in the Resistance, and one thing Bobby was good at was killing Jerrys. He just liked it too much. But he did the _Cordon Bleu_ after the war. Now, he pretty much helps Mickey with running the place. Organizes the museum. It’s good for him here. It’s quiet and out of the way. Great cook.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

“Don’t be concerned. There’s not chance he’d harm a guest in Mickey’s house.”

“As long as he holds guest right…” Methos reached out and picked up a lock of MacLeod’s damp dark hair. He began curling it around his finger.

 _…that man standing in his father’s tent was like no one the child had ever seen. Big and blunt featured and the hair on his head curled as tightly as fleece of a black ram. Around his neck was a circle of dark twisted metal...._

MacLeod wondered about the dreamy look in Methos’s eyes. “Are you still pissed at me?”

“No. I should be.” Methos whispered, as he began winding the fragment of dark hair around his finger. “’Penny, brown penny…’ behold the beneficial effects of a feather bed and, I believe, you said something about there being mulled wine for later, yes?”

“I promise. There will be mulled wine for later.”

Methos kept winding, pulling MacLeod closer and closer, until their lips nearly touched.

“Hey!” MacLeod’s brow went up, as if he’d been suddenly struck by some notion or other. “I thought you were starving.”

“I didn’t say for what.”

 _I’m looped in the loops of your hair._

It was only that the rich aroma creeping up the stairs smelled delicious enough to lure them down.

Mickey came in as they made the landing, bringing with him a draught of damp raw air with him from outside. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming down,” he said, and cast a knowing eye at their flushed faces. “You’d have regretted it.”

“It smells wonderful,” MacLeod said. “’D‘ye steal the mayor’s pig?”

“None of that, Mac,” Mickey said, leading them down the hall to a paneled dining room. “I keep an honest house these days. We raise our own animals, and have three stars in the last Michelin guide.”

He seated them against the wall, away from the door. “I’ll tell Christine to bring a bottle—let me know what you think of it, by the way—and I recommend the stirrabout; that’s what you smell.”

Mickey disappeared into the kitchen, giving them a chance to look around. The dining room seated eight tables white linen clothes and candles glowing in brass stands. Their fellow diners looked like a local couple, just finishing their meal; there were two middle-aged men, as well, chatting in antipodean accents; and a young man with a map spread out on the table in front of him.

The young man’s hiking boots and khaki pants were muddy and still damp around the bottom.After dismissing the lot, Methos picked up the candle stand and examined it. It was an artillery shell that been engraved polished and fitted with a glass cover. Tracing the decorative leaves and curlicues with a finger, he said, “Wars leave so much trash to clean up. It least this bit’s being recycled. You think I’d find one for sale in the museum?”

“I expect so. Bobby makes them.”

“Bobby-back-in-Blighty?”

“Mmm…” MacLeod nodded. “He used to be a silversmith.”

“A smith?” Methos looked up. “He did good work.”

Christine came with the promised bottle and took their order, assuring them that the _pot-au-feu_ was a good as it smelled. The wine, garnet in the candle light, was a complicated, full bodied Burgundy, worth savoring.

“You know,” Methos finally said, “I let you drag me here.”

“Pouting all the way.”

“It’s what I do best. Don’t you think it’s about time you told me what we’re doing here?”

MacLeod sighed. “I want to put flowers on Sean Burn’s grave.”

Methos stared at him. “Tell me you made that up.”

MacLeod shook his head.

“For God’s sake! Why the sudden outburst of sentimentality? First Keane, now…”

“Keane was Sean’s student. Letting Keane live means there’s something left of Sean in the world.”

“Not taking Keane’s head may be the stupidest thing you’ve ever done.”

“Methos, killing Sean is the worst thing I have ever done. When I think back on…that time…I know I owe you my life and my sanity, but I owed him, too, far, far longer…” MacLeod placed his two hands to his lip in an attitude of prayer. “During the war, you don’t know…I drove the ambulances, I worked for the Red Cross and…

“You were a mule skinner, a grave digger and a bloody body snatcher!”

“Stretcher bearer!”

“Whatever. That’s not what you called it then. What you’re saying is that you didn’t take up arms.”

“That’s right. I couldn’t; I promised Darius I wouldn’t. I still couldn’t stay away from it. I was gassed. Shot. Got blown off the duck boards, God know how many times, and drowned in a shell hole, more than once, bringing a man in…” MacLeod said. “Went out night after night, carrying the wounded to the dressing stations, trying to save lives, and all I felt was horribly, horribly guilty. Because I wasn’t fighting. But Sean…I don’t know how he stood it…the hospital…the horrific wounds…the nurses died from the gas in the soldier’s clothing. He carried on, and he made it possible for me to carry on.” Methos nodded. MacLeod stopped and squinted at him, suspiciously. “How do you know about that?”

“I read your chronicles.”

“That is not fair.”

“I know, but mine are so tedious; there’re just no surprises left in it…also I know that the last thing Sean would want you to do is torture yourself.”

“I’m not torturing myself.” MacLeod met Methos’s dubious expression. “This is what I owe Sean; I have his quickening. It’s what lets me go on living with myself in something like peace.”

“Then there is something else of him, besides Keane, in the world.”

“Yes,” MacLeod said, and looked down.

“And for that,” Methos said, “I will go with you and I will pour a libation for Sean’s spirit.”

The local couple got up and left.

After a moment, MacLeod touched his glass to Methos’. “Thank you.”

The waitress brought their food, and they settled down to eat.

The stew was as good as Mickey had promised it would be and it would have been pleasant to enjoy it in companionable silence.

Unfortunately, one of older men pulled out a note book and began reading. He had an unfortunately penetrating voice, and as he read it became louder and more urgent, until it was impossible to ignore what he was saying—

 _“‘…burying several million tons of ammonal explosive. On June, 7 th, nineteen of the twenty-two mines were detonated in the largest man-made, non-nuclear explosion in history. It was said that Lloyd-George, in Downing Street, felt his windows rattle. The blast took off the top of the ridge, annihilating the German trenches and killing hundreds of the defenders outright. Those that survived were left deafened, dazed and terrified.’”_

When he stopped, the young man with the muddy pants asked him if he was familiar with the battlefield. He said yes; he and his friend were from New Zealand; this was their fourth trip; they were documenting the mine craters.

The hiker introduced himself. He was Canadian and had spent the day searching for his great-grandfather’s grave; with no luck.

 _Ah,_ the kiwis said, it was impossible to trust the Commonwealth Graves’ maps, but they brought their own guides for each sector of the battlefield and they began quizzing him on when his great-grandfather had been killed; he wasn’t sure; he thought it was on Messines Ridge. The two became excited; did he realize that was where greatest mining operation of the war had occurred? They started bickering over whether the _Messines Ridge Cemetery_ or the _Island of Ireland Peace Park_ was the more likely location to look for his grave.

MacLeod put his fork down. “Excuse me.” He stood up and walked over to the Canadian’s table. “In what battalion did your great-grandfather serve?”

“36th Ulster Rifles.”

“The Stickies?”

“That’s it! How did you…?”

“What was his name?”

“Kilbride. William Kilbride.”

“Go look in _One Tree Hill Cemetery_. His name will be on the memorial stone. It’s a mass grave.”

As MacLeod walked back to the table, the Canadian called, “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” MacLeod said, and sat down.

Methos refilled his glass. “Bad one?”

“Eighty-eight men buried up there. By the end of the war been shelled so many times, that the bodies had been churned up…” He suddenly turned and roared at the three, “It was just bits and pieces; no way to tell who was whom!”

They gathered their gear and decamped at speed.

A short time later, Mickey came in. Shutting the door carefully behind him, he pulled a chair to their table. “Thank you much, Mac,” he said, “Now, I’ve got those Enzed nutters in my taproom, bullying that poor boy and annoying my regulars.” He picked up the bottle of wine and refilled their glasses, pouring one for himself. “I swear, some people think this is Flanders-fucking-Disneyland.”

“What’s with the mines?” MacLeod said.

“Other than the Freudian obvious,” Methos said.

Mickey laughed. “They think know where the lost one is.”

“There’s a lost mine?”

“Don’t smirk. Nineteen went off. Two didn’t—no one knows why—after the war, they lost them. Or, anyway, they lost the location. Probably used the map for bumf.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. One of them blew up in a thunder storm in 1955. Killed a cow.”

“And these guys have a theory about the last one?”

“Sure do. But the joke’s on them; there’s no secret! You’re going up to Blauwepoort Wood tomorrow?

“We are,” MacLeod said.

 Mickey to Methos.

“When you’re up on the ridge, look west across the Hubert farm. You’ll see a duck pond between the house and the road. The duck pond is the ’55 crater. The missing mine has to be under the road on other side.”

“No one’s ever gone looking for it?”

“Not from around here,” Mickey said. “And last time I volunteered, Hooky said was a farmhouse needed defending. I’ve made it my practice to stand down, ever since. So…” He dusted the away the thought. “What do you think of the wine?”

“It’s superb,” MacLeod said. “Let us have a couple of bottles for a picnic? I thought to show Adam around. You know, here we was and there they was?”

“Of course; I’ll ask Christine put up a basket for you. Speaking of tomorrow, you are going to stay over, yes?” He smiled at Methos. “I’ve been looking forward to catching up with this guy.”

Christine stuck her head in the door just then to say they needed Mickey to bring a keg up to the taproom. “Place keeps me jumping.” He stood up. “I wish Bobby was here.”

“How’s he doing?”

“Good days. Bad days. November’s never good, and what with the weather we’ve been having…Some days, it’s still ’17.”

“I’m sorry,” MacLeod said.

 “Hardly your fault.” Mickey shook his head. “Some just aren’t for it.” It looked for a moment as if he wanted to add something else. Then he hitched his shoulder and walked away.

“What happened in ‘17?” Methos said, when was gone.

“Rain. Like the Flood. It rained from August through December. Haig wanted that advance, and if you haven’t experienced Flanders mud…you’ve wouldn’t believe they sent men to fight in it. It took sixteen men in relays to carry out one under fire. The weight of a man, his kit, the lot clogged with mud and soaked with rain. Your hands went numb. Three miles of mud to the dressing station, only to find out he was dead. The earth was pounded to porridge. There was quicksand and if fellow got blown off a duck board, or slipped…you hustled on by ‘cause Jerry would pot you. Bobby got stuck, trapped in a shell hole up to his shoulders under a box barrage. And we did try with the stretcher poles and a man in the middle to make a chain. But the more we pulled, the more he struggled, the further down he went. He kept begging someone to shoot him. But who could? So he died. For three days. He was mad by the end if not before.”

Methos stroked a finger over the engraving on the candle stand. “Some get stuck in more ways than one.”

“But not you, my friend,” MacLeod said, splitting the last of the bottle between their glasses. “Let’s get another of these. You ready to go upstairs?”

“Yes,” Methos said.

While they’d been at dinner, a fire had been lit in the grate and a tinned copper had appeared on the hearth beside a pair of mugs, a pepper mill, a jar of honey and a dish of lemons.

“Come and sit with me,” MacLeod said, installing himself on the rug in front of the hearth. Methos came and sat down crisscross beside him. Their knees touched. “This is an old family recipe, from when Connor and I shared lodgings in Gerrard Street.” He thrust the poker that had been leaning against the jamb into the burning wood and filled the copper and added the honey and spice. He set the pepper mill down and snaked an arm around Methos, drawing them together in a slow kiss. Slowly, because with Methos he was always as a ranger, exploring an unknown land, but tonight he felt was no resistance in Methos and that emboldened to hope push deeper. In fact the kiss was so deep and all-consuming in the end that it took a spitting ember to remind him what they were supposed to be there about.

He broke away laughing, and said, “Mickey will kill me, if I burn the place down, again.”

“How many times have you done that?”

“Only the once, I swear. And it was in Spain.”

“Still, you should let me do that, then.”

Using a napkin, Methos removed the poker from the fire. The tip had turned a deep red. He plunged it into the copper, setting the wine to hissing and bubbling, and releasing a pungent steam that tickled the nose. He poured and handed a mug to MacLeod and took one for himself. They sat together, watching the flames burn down, holding mugs of the old-fashioned sweet and peppery drink close, double comfort against the raw wind outside. Heat flowed from wine to flesh and somewhere between sips they began trading kisses, fleeting tastes of lip and tongue that lingered into deep caresses.

MacLeod, overwhelmed by the lust he’d been keeping a grip on far too long, made a mistake. Greedy to get at it, he set his mug down and, roughly, ordered, “Get your clothes off.”

Methos was hardly unwilling. The kiss would have had to end anyway, if things were going to progress any further, and even immortals have to breathe. But when he’d gotten himself extricated from his jumper, he saw MacLeod reach into his back pocket and take out a handful of green foil packets (He’d had them tucked away since the stop in Arras.) and set them within easy reach.

Methos picked one up. They were a brand of a personal lubricant well-known for its warming qualities. He quirked an eyebrow at MacLeod.

“Been too long I’ve had you,” MacLeod said, pulling off his vest.

With his head covered, he missed the flash in Methos’s eyes that would have warned him there was a wiser way. And when he’d tossed the vest away and Methos hadn’t moved, he compounded his sin by knocking him flat, and ordering, “Unzip!”

Methos indulged him that far but lay there reflecting how ever since MacLeod had shown up at this door the night before, all moist and macho, insisting on routing him out of his nice warm bed and dragging him off to Flanders, he had gone along with  him.  Bitching and moaning the whole way, it was true, but he’d still gone along with what was essentially the Duncan Macleod Show. And it looked like that was what he was doing now, lying there and letting MacLeod deal with his boots and his socks and the skinning of his jeans. In a lot of ways, it was perfectly fine and pleasant being handled and petted…but someone was getting way out of hand.

And it was perfectly fine with MacLeod. He loved unwrapping presents. He adored rendering Methos naked, except for the tight black shorts bulging prick-proud, and sprawled out in front of him…

Methos smiled.

MacLeod caught his breath back and bent to tug at the waistband of the shorts, rolling them down. Methos helped him by pulling his leg free and the bulge unfurled.

Anticipating a mouthful of salty maleness, MacLeod bent with his lips parted to have a taste of it.

And that was when Methos struck—

A quick roll of hips and MacLeod’s neck was locked under a knee and his head was clamped between powerful thighs. Taken unawares, he couldn’t protest. Like a child who screams for a jaw-breaker until it’s crammed in his mouth and then finds he can neither swallow it nor spit it out. His eyes grew big. And bigger, when he realized that Methos had no intention of letting go; he was trapped. He stuck his ass in the air, pulling and mewing. It was no go. He snarled and his eyebrows raged. Starting to think about the katana, hanging in the closet, he growled around the meat in his mouth. As a last resort, he tried teeth and got his ears slammed for his trouble.

“Don’t even think about it. There are three different ways I can kill you, but I’d prefer to get some use out of your mouth.”

MacLeod blinked and dialed his eyebrows back to an interrogative setting; Methos picked up one of the foil packets and flicked it off of his nose. “Ask! You’ve been a highhanded snot for the last two days. Whatever you think of me, or what I’ve done, doesn’t entitle you to grab mine whenever you want a piece of ass.”

MacLeod’s face turned dusky red.

Finally, he dropped his gaze.

“Good boy.” Methos, half-closed his eyes and, shivering with pleasurable tension, began to flex his hips. “I’m glad we had this conversation. Now, suck or choke.”

MacLeod set himself to sucking. (Honesty compelled him to admit it was a fair cop—and the second thing that Connor had taught him, after how to win a fight, was how to lose one.)

Having carried his point, Methos untangled his legs, easing the pressure on MacLeod’s ears. He lay there watching and gradually the stubborn rhythm of MacLeod’s mouth found its ragged counterpoint in the heaving of his chest.

His shorts still hung from his ankle. He gave them a little flip and sent them off to drop like a persistent memory from the rim of a lampshade. He opened his thighs, the better to display himself and to prove to MacLeod that that submission can have its rewards. Also, the better to watch MacLeod’s cheeks pull in and puff out, because—really?—Duncan MacLeod with his skin all burnished by firelight and suckin’ away like a good ‘un? He couldn’t have dreamed of more satisfying moment. All was forgiven. Coming in Duncan’s mouth, with their hands that had somehow found each other threaded together, was a thing of pure and shocking pleasure.

It was equally pleasurable, though less pure, for Duncan. He still had his pants on and when he collapsed, quenched and drenched, the melting sweetness in his briefs too quickly became cold and clammy. Sooner than he liked, he had to get up on all fours. His conscience, though, commanded him to lay his head on Methos’ stomach.

“ _Mea culpa,_ ” he said, _“Mia maxima culpa._ ”

“Ten Hail Mary’s.” Methos blessed him with an admonitory smack. “What’s the lesson?”

“Ask. Clear the hurdles. Say please. Tie you down first.”

MacLeod got to his feet, unbuckled his belt and kicked his jeans off. When he bent to pick them up, another scattering of foil packets fell on the rug.

“How many of those did you buy?”

“There were ten in the box.” MacLeod gathered them up, and went to toss them in the wastebasket.

“Hey!” Methos stopped him. “Waste not, want not, Highlander. Live. Grow strong. Fuck another day.”

“Spare me the ineffable wisdom of the ancients.”

“Oh, it’s pretty damned effable from where I’m sitting.” Methos gave him one of his best smug squinches, then stretched his arms behind his head and contemplated an eiderdown through half-closed eyes. “Why don’t you go rinse your shorts and meet me in that bed? I’ll bet we’d both fit.”

“Definitely tying you down next time,” Methos heard him say, as the bathroom door closed behind him.

“We’ll see…maybe.” Methos smiled like a cat.

There was still burnt wine left and there was plenty of room in bed, especially if MacLeod tucked himself under Methos’s arm and put his head on his shoulder, luxuriating in skin on skin. He would have given anything to let go of the tension and forget the haunting sense of having transgressed.

“I didn’t mean…”

“I know.”

“I only wanted…”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Believe me; I know that, too. Love, your conscience is as magnificent a guilt machine as I’ve ever seen, but please turn it off for once.” He knew it was a mistake as soon as he said it.

“Love?” MacLeod said.

“Lover.” Methos attempted to recover, but he could feel MacLeod’s eyelashes fluttering against his neck. The man was thinking. “Go to sleep,” he said, and closed his eyes.

Not quickly enough, though; MacLeod pounced.

“Tell me the first thing you remember.”

“Do we have to do this tonight?” Methos sighed.

“One thing.”

“I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

“You’ve read my chronicles. Give me one thing of yours that isn’t a myth or a lie.”

“Duncan…” desperately, “I don’t have words.”

“Find them.” MacLeod rolled on top of him, as if he thought Methos would run away. Methos actually found himself spreading his legs to accommodate him.

“God, you are such an ass.”

“Please.” MacLeod begged with kisses.

“Wanker!”

“Yes.” More kisses.

“Oh…damn it.” Methos hugged the weight and warmth of MacLeod’s body to him. “Stop that. I’ll give you the color of my father’s hair…there’s no word in English for it, but it’s the color of acorns in the fall.”

 _…and I’m up before him, clutching his horse’s mane. The rolling thunder is the pounding of hooves on the earth. The horses are screaming. The world is on fire. But my father has his arms around me…I’m safe…_

When MacLeod woke the next morning, Methos was sitting in the window seat, already dressed.

“You’re up early.”

“I went for a walk.”

MacLeod poured himself a cup of coffee from the carafe on the bedside table, observing the glum intensity with which Methos was looking out the window. “What’s the matter?”

“Is Bobby-back-in-Blighty a six-foot-something blond lunk?”

“Pretty much.”

“Then would you mind if we skipped breakfast? I’m pretty sure he saw me and he didn’t look happy about it. I feel I’ve made all the new friends I can stand for a while.”

“Give me minute,” MacLeod said, and went to get dressed.

Mickey was nowhere to be seen when they left but Christine was up. She looked harried, bustling about, getting the dining room ready for breakfast but she had their lunch in a box, with two bottles of wine, ready to for them to take.

The morning was clear and blue, although, mare’s tails and mackerel scales to the north promised a later storm.

Instead of turning west toward the Roman road, they took a country road that passed through tiny villages and farms. It was impossible not to notice the harvest of barbed wire and clusters of unexploded shells gathered in the corners of fields in the road. Once there was a tattered gas mask someone had left on a hedge. It was also impossible not to notice how many memorials and cemeteries were sprinkled like confetti across this patch of ground.

Past Blauwepoort, MacLeod turned down a narrow farm lane. A gently sloping ridge began to rise on their right. Two miles later they came to a car park at the head of marked path going up the ridge. The car park was bounded by a stand of pine, giving protection from the constant wind. At the top of the ridge you could see a red brick wall enclosing a cemetery.

“This is it,” MacLeod said, and went to open the boot of the car and get out the bunch of white roses that he’d ordered and picked up in Paris yesterday.

 Methos took a bottle of wine from their picnic box and slipped a corkscrew in his pocket.

Together they climbed the gently undulating slope, following a shallow saw-tooth lane in the earth. At the top the wrought iron gate set in the brick wall was unlocked. MacLeod went in. Methos waited outside.

Like most of the cemeteries they had driven by there was a cross of sacrifice standing on a plinth in the center. Unlike most of those cemeteries, the stones here had been placed in concentric circles around it. The shape of the stones was uniform, although the service symbols were varied…a thistle, a dragon, a maple leaf. Where there was a name, there was sometimes a Cross or a Star of David or a Crescent below. A few of them bore wreathes and cards. On too many of them there was no name. The carving read simply _Known But to God_. Near the gate was a stone, a little lighter than the others, that bore a laurel wreath and caduceus. The inscription read _Capt. Sean Burns RAMC killed 1917_ and at the bottom _A keen blade and a healer’s heart._

Here MacLeod, regardless of the mud and the damage to his trousers, chose to kneel and place his flowers at the base of the stone. Unselfconsciously he folded his hands and bowed his head. “Sean,” Methos heard him praying, “I am so grievously sorry that I struck you down in my madness. It is a burden I will bear forever…forgive me, intercede for me and help me in my time…”

Not wanting to hear more, Methos strolled along the path that followed the edge of the slope. It took him to a point where he could see the flat brown fields of Flanders spreading out smoothly as a counterpane. In the distance the spires of Ypres—its rebuilt cathedral and medieval cloth hall—stood proudly against the sky. Considered as highlands the slope was unimpressive, yet it was easy to see how an enemy, once dug in, could dominate—had dominated—the position for years. Sod’s Corner.

He took the corkscrew out of his pocket and began twisting it into his bottle. In the car park where they had left MacLeod’s BMW, a motorcycle pulled in. The rider knelt began undoing a slim case clipped to the side of his machine.

“I’m done.” MacLeod came up behind him. His voice was hoarse and his brogue thicker than usual.

Methos turned and gripped his shoulder briefly. “I’ll be quick,” he said, and went inside the circle of stones. Standing in front of Sean’s, he popped the cork and poured the wine over the wilted grass, adding his offering to Duncan’s roses. “Sean,” he said, “your name is unmade, but it is not lost and it will not be forgotten.”

“Methos…” He heard Duncan call. “I think we’ve trouble.”

“I know. Why don’t we stay up here? Holy ground and…” _Damn!_ MacLeod was already hurrying down the path. Methos threw the bottle away and ran to catch up. “Haven’t you ever heard of discretion? What’s the problem? He’d get tired, eventually.”

“He’s a friend,” MacLeod said. “Let me talk to him.”

“Oh, by all means, talk to him.” There’s nothing that can’t be resolved by a good talking through.”

The man at the bottom of the hill was holding what looked a very serviceable 1912 cavalry sabre. Methos undid the belt of coat.

“Sergeant Keith,” Macleod called. “It’s me, Mac.”

“I know.”

MacLeod indicated the sabre in Bobby’s hand. “What’s this then?”

“I’ve come for the Boshe.”

Bobby lifted the weapon. It was pure reflex that MacLeod drew his katana.

Methos skipped out of the range of its deadly arc, muttering, “Why am I not surprised?” and Bobby’s eyes, glittering with madness, followed him.

“Where do you think you’re going, Kammerad?”

“Nowhere, if I can help it.”

Methos drew his broadsword and Bobby made a move to go around MacLeod and get at him. MacLeod blocked his move.

“It’s me he called, Mac,” Methos said. “Back off!”

But MacLeod kept the katana extended across the space between them. “Bobby, you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“I saw that filthy Hun lurking around the gun emplacements this morning.”

“What are you talking about? What gun emplacements?”

“I stopped by the museum this morning…” Methos moved off to the right, trying to expose himself and draw Bobby away from MacLeod… “Nice collection.”

“See! He admits it, he’s a spy!”

“He’s no spy,” MacLeod said. “He’s my friend.”

“Then  you’re a traitor!” Bobby took a swing at MacLeod.

His swing was all abroad and MacLeod evaded it easily.

What he couldn’t evade, because he wasn’t expecting it, was Methos slipping around and coming in on his blind side to crack his hand with the flat of the broadsword. The Katana clattered on the asphalt. MacLeod reached for it. Methos cut his arm. “Don’t!”

“What are you doing?” MacLeod crouched, clutching his bleeding wound.

“He called _me_. It’s _tynged_! You can’t interfere.”

They glared at each other.

MacLeod’s mouth was a straight line in his face. His black brows beetled with Highland stubbornness, but the one incontrovertible fact of their immortal existence compelled him to back away. He was as pale as Methos had ever seen him.

As soon as he backed away Bobby attacked, coming in high and aiming at Methos’s neck. It was probably the only chance Bobby would have. Methos didn’t blame him; he was expecting it and parried easily. They stood off, circling each other like cats, Bobby probing for an opening. Both of them disregarded a yellow Mercedes that pulled into the car park and jerked to a halt.

“We don’t have to do this,” Methos said. “I wouldn’t kill a smith, even a whitesmith.”

“What’re you blathering about, Allyman?”

“It’s a personal thing, you chronic case, but if you insist…”

There was a flurry of blades, a brief exchange, which confirmed for Methos that Bobby was no swordsman. He held his left hand up.

“Yield,” he said. “You can’t beat me. There’s no dishonor.”

“See you in hell.” Bobby attempted another wild lunge.

Methos dodged and feinted toward his head. Bobby raised his sabre to block the cut and Methos reversed the edge downward, severing his hamstring. Bobby staggered, but in spite of what had to be a hideous painful wound, he attempted a desperate third swing. Methos cut his other leg. Bobby fell to his knees. He dropped the sabre and looked up at Methos, as if to ask why, and exposing his throat.

“I’m sorry,” Methos said, and took a two handed grip on the hilt of his sword.

As the head flew off and rolled across the tarmac, someone—Mickey— screamed Bobby’s name.

Methos was aware of MacLeod running.

All he could do was stagger the few steps to the grass to plant his sword in the earth and brace himself for the quickening.

Unlike orgasm, it began with all his boundaries stripped away but instead of an outpouring of engendering ecstasy, he was trapped in the grip of his own immortal nature, rendered an empty welcoming vessel as the surging waves of energypassed through him, hot as the sun, almost obliterating his immortal core. He hadn’t known Bobby Keith. He hadn’t wanted _this_ , but he wanted to live and instinctively reached out, seizing what he could and holding on to it, because that would be all that remained.

As Methos endured it, he subsuming Bobby’s essence and the wind began to blow. Around him, molecules in the air became charged and superheated. Bolts of lightning began to dance around him, melting the tarmac into pools of asphalt where they struck. The stand of resinous pines burst into flame, setting the fencing around the car park on fire.

A bolt of lightning found the hilt of his sword. It seared the flesh from his hands and shattered the blade as it passed into the ground, where it found a snarl of rusty iron and old copper wire along which it zipped until it came to the chamber containing the last mine with its charge of 50,000 pounds of explosive ammonal, and ignited it.

Methos was on his knees clutching his burned hands to his chest. They had healed, but the memory of pain lasts longer when he felt the earth twitch and tremble. He thought it was the last of Bobby’s quickening and how surprisingly powerful it was for one who had been so young. He was wishing he knew where MacLeod had gotten himself when, from deep below the Flanders clay, the hill behind him erupted in an explosion of volcanic proportion—smoke, flame, rock and earth—the substance of the hill was blown over the car-park, the road and the fields.

A giant’s hand seized hold of Methos and squeezed the air from his lungs. It splintered his bones and flung the insensate ragdoll that was left skyward.

His body came down, jetsam amid the hail of debris falling back to earth. It hit a rock, crushing his head.

From such deaths, the come-back is fast, and very painful.

He woke half-buried, eye-less, earless, tongue-less; in an agony of broken bones that were snapping into place and nerve rethreading and reestablishing connections with gelatinized guts and tendons reforming at speed.

Sight is the first priority.

Light stabbed his brain. He rolled over to hide from it, crouching and whimpering, pawing blood and dirt from the sockets until he had lids to protect the new lens.

The swarm of wasps buzzing in his head flew away and was replaced by a mewing he was able to understand was someone crying. He could feel a Presence.

Spitting muck, he got to his knees and began crawling up the muddy side of the newly blasted crater. The earth was loose and slick and he kept sliding back. Eventually, he figured out how to dig in with his elbows and then made slow progress. “Uh-an?” he called. His tongue was a clumsy stump but he kept calling until he flopped over the rim and roll down the other side.

The air was smoky but the sky above was still blue.

Methos took a slow breath, testing, letting his lungs expanded fully. Then he stood up. His coat was gone. One leg of his pants was gone and with it the boot that had been on that foot. He tugged the tail of his ragged shirt down, as neat as he could make it, and turned around and around, trying to find his bearings. Where…?

The slope they had climbed was obliterated. In its place lurked a gaping crater, at least 90 meters wide and 30 meters deep. At the top the brick wall was gone, although he could see the tip of the Cross of Sacrifice sticking out at crazy angle above the dirt at upper rim. At the bottom, half the pavement was gone. The force of the explosion had shattered the windows of the yellow Mercedes, partially burying it. But by chance MacLeod’s BMW, which had been sitting closer to the road, appeared to be intact except for one broken window.

The crying was different, softer now. It was coming from the stumps where the trees had stood

He set out, stumbling over the rubble underfoot and spotted Bobby’s cavalry sabre in the dirt. The blade was bent. He picked it up, anyway.

He found MacLeod alive, sitting in the dirt with the katana across his lap and when he looked at Methos’s approach, there were pale tracks through the grime on his cheeks. Near where he was sitting Bobby’s headless body hung impaled on a pine stump. It did not look as if it had been beheaded. There was no sign of Mickey.

“C’mon.” He snagged MacLeod under the arm and pulled him to his feet.

MacLeod staggered heavily and almost knocked him down. “I thought you were…”

“I was.”  There were sirens in the distance. “Move! We can’t stay here.”

MacLeod agreed, “Have to find a bivvy.”

“If that means a place to hide, why didn’t you think of it sooner?”

Together they stumbled to the car.

At first it wouldn’t start.

MacLeod turned the key, cursing as the starter cranked and cranked. Finally, the engine caught and turned over. They drove away just in time, within two minutes they had to pull over for an emergency vehicle.

The car shivered as it passed them at speed with all its lights flashing. It was shortly followed three more.

They kept driving another hour before they found a service station in a village called Tielen where they could stop for petrol and use the facilities.

The BMW was the first thing, in case someone happened to notice the dirt and broken windows and put two and two together. Putting it through a car-wash took care of that.

Next was the fact that both of them were filthy. The filth could be rectified somewhat with soap and paper towels in the lavatory. As far as clothes MacLeod could make do—thanks to his leather coat, his jumper had survived and he had a spare pair of jeans to put on. But Methos’s clothes were a total loss.

He had to sit tight in the car while MacLeod did the best he could for him in a local shop and spent the time eating ginger-lemon cookies, listening to the radio, and trying to stop his nerves from replaying the too rapid revival. In a drastic energy deficit, he’d consumed two boxes of cookies by the time MacLeod came back.

MacLeod threw himself into the car and a bag into Methos’s lap. He started the motor, turned the car around and began heading back the way they’d come.

“What are you doing?” Methos protested, waving at the dash. “On the radio they’re telling people to stay out of the area until it’s been cleared.”

“I know. It’s all anyone in the store was talking about,” MacLeod said.

He drove until he came to a trucker’s lay-by that he’d noticed on the way into the village. There was a picnic table and a portable toilet. “Go and get dressed,” he said, “You’ve got have something to eat, besides cookies, and then we have to decide what to do.”

Methos started for the port-a-pot, dragging Bobby’s bent sabre with him. He took two steps and then turned around to MacLeod with his hand out. “Got any change? It costs a Euro to use that thing, and I seem to have misplaced my billfold.”

MacLeod dug out the lunch Christine had packed for them that morning and took it to the table to sort out while Methos dressed. There was salad and some of the meat left from the _pot-au-feu_ last night. There was cheese and bread and grapes. He’d bought more food, as well: sausage, cheese, raisins, chocolate and some energy bars—all the high-calorie things he could think of—and more of the lemon-ginger cookies, since Methos seemed to like them.

Methos came out of the toilet wearing a white sweatshirt, khaki cargos and the trainers that MacLeod had bought for him. He leaned Bobby’s sabre against the picnic table as he sat down. “It’s not worth the fixing.”

MacLeod said, “I’m thinking we have to go back and find Mickey.”

“No, we don’t.”

“He’s alive.”

“Bully for him. Let the experts dig him out.”

“We have to…”

“What? Talk to him? Apologize for me killing his _fanti_ friend, have him name me and come after me?”

“I won’t let him.”

“The way you didn’t let Bobby?” Methos said. “That’s the way to put the tin hat on it, MacLeod. Can’t you get it through your thick skull that you, and your guilt complex, are not the bloody center of the universe? In case you hadn’t noticed; I do not need you to protect me!”

“Yeah? And who stuck his nose in between me and Keane?”

“Oh, fine! It was Amanda’s idea but go ahead throw it in my face. Do you know long I had that broadsword?”

“Not a clue.”

“Three hundred years. Now it’s a scrap of slag under a pile of dirt.” Methos picked up the sabre and slammed it on the table top. “I need a new sword—just in case we happen to meet another old friend of yours.”

“I’ll get you another one.” MacLeod shoved a sandwich at him. “Eat.”

Methos ate. MacLeod watched him. Finally, he sighed and said, “I can’t help it. Sean said I was raised to defend the clan.”

“What...?”

“He said I was raised to fight—to defend the clan—and anything else feels wrong.”

“Are you saying you see me as part of your clan?”

“How many ways do I have to try making it clear?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know how that makes me feel.”

“To tell you the truth—I hadn’t thought about it that way before, either—but I would hope it makes you feel good.”

“Why? I’d managed to stay out of the game for two hundred years. Then you come along and, today, I died the kind of death I’ve always tried to avoid.”

MacLeod reached out and captured one of Methos’s hands. “Last night, you gave me something. Tell me what you want.”

“A sword. I need to…”

He meant to elaborate, but MacLeod was already up and bundling the trash together. “Let me toss this,” he was saying. “We’ll go back to Paris. I know a good sword-smith there. And there’s one Rheims who does good work, although there’s a man in Sheffield who still…” 

Still talking, MacLeod got up to carry the trash to waste can. He didn’t see Methos pick up the sabre and heft the hilt in his hand. Neither did he see Methos come up behind him, take careful aim and smash the pommel into the back of his skull.

The blow killed him instantly.

“I know a man, too,” Methos said, as he bent to hook MacLeod under the arms and drag him to the car “I think it’s time the two of you met.”

“You have got to go on a diet,” he muttered, shoving him unceremoniously into the back seat.

Taking the seat behind the steering wheel, he ripped open the last box of ginger-lemon biscuits and crammed three of them in his mouth. Only then did he start the engine and begin heading north.

Duncan woke up in a dark place, aware of a queasy feeling in his stomach. He could tell he was in the back seat of the BMW, but wherever the BMW was and whatever it was sitting on, was wallowing all over the place.

He could feel the throbbing of powerful engines. There was the blast of a fog horn and the smell of diesel fumes. He sat up and an empty box of biscuits fell on the floor. Dim as it was, he could see outside and the car was hemmed in closely by other vehicles. It had to be one of the Cross Channel Ferries. Probably from Ostend. He couldn’t have been dead long.

He eased himself out carefully. There wasn’t much room between cars and the floor…no…the deck under his feet was rising and falling precipitously. He spotted the exit to the upper levels and made his way there, with great determination.

Up a set of steel stairs that debouched into a corridor, he found a sign with an arrow that said Way To All Passenger Decks.

The door at the end of the corridor was closed and, when he touched the knob, he could feel it jumping in his hand to a quick rhythm. Opened, there was an immense amount of noise and another flight of stair with man sitting on them, who, by his uniform had to be one of the stewards, sitting there, puffing on a cigarette in clear violation of the line’s NO SMOKING rule.

Since he seemed supremely uninterested the sudden appearance of Duncan in front of him, Duncan edged around him and climbed the steps high enough to peer above the deck. There was a hell of a party going on. He could feel the beat of the drums in his gut and there were a great many feet stomping very hard much too close to his head.

He eased himself back down the step and settled on the stair beside the steward, who offered his pack of Dunhills as one companion to another. Duncan accepted, along with the use of a lighter, and they sat together smoking until the music achieved its final thundering climax.

In the blessed stillness after, Duncan stuck a finger in his ear, and said, “Wha’s tha’?”

His new friend exhaled a thin stream of blue smoke. “Wha’s tha’s the tenth circle of hell. Two-hundred god-damn-drunken Irish folk singers on their way back from a Celtic music festival in fuckin’ Switzerland!”

Somebody yelled, _Hit it, Harry!_ A banjo started twanking and a raspy voice started singing: _Stealin’…stealin’…pretty mama don’t you tell on me, I’m a stealin’ back to my same old used to be…”_

“Speakin’ of Hell, you don’t look so good, Mac. You know you’ve blood on your collar.”

MacLeod felt the back of his head. His hair was stiff with dried blood. “I had an accident. Is there a washroom?”

“You mean one they haven’t puked in?” The steward lit himself another Dunhill from the dog end of the one he was finishing. “Try up top. Take my advice and run before they break out the bagpipes.”

He found Methos on the top deck, throwing up over the railing.

It was cold out in the open. The wind was picking up and the ferry rose and fell, seemingly in opposition to the steel gray waves rising and falling on either side. There was no hope that it wasn’t going to storm.

Since no other passengers had chosen to come out in the open air, MacLeod had his choice of benches on which to sit. Eventually, Methos turned a green face to him.

“Kill me,” he begged. “Please.”

“I could throw you overboard and let you swim, but this is more fun.”

“Bastard.” Methos leaned over the railing again.

“I assume we’re heading for Dover.” The reply was inarticulate, but MacLeod took it for an affirmative. “You want to tell me why?”

Methos came and sank down on the bench beside him; MacLeod opened up his jacket, put his arm around his shoulders. “I told you, I need a sword, but you weren’t listening.”

“You had to kill me to get my attention.”

“Yes. It was a little extreme, but I’m not at my best when I’ve just been blown to kingdom come.”

“And what do we do after we get to Dover?”

“We’re going to Wales.”

“Wales it is,” said MacLeod.

Methos burped and snuggled closer.

 _In the west, the man on the mountain top felt the wind turn. It was starting to rain. He’d been waiting for it a long time…_

 

 

December 29, 2011

**Author's Note:**

> The quoted line of poetry is from "Brown Penny" by William Butler Yeats.


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